


Lock up your daughters (and your sons)

by Seek_The_Mist



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Drunk Sex, Dry Humping, Gansey is a terrible drunk you can fight me on this, Late at Night, Light Angst, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pining, Praise Kink, Pre-The Raven Boys, Sleepovers, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 15:18:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11580741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seek_The_Mist/pseuds/Seek_The_Mist
Summary: That one summer night, before everything went downhill, when Ronan discovered how little Gansey can be trusted with whiskey.“Gansey, shut up.” Ronan wanted to snarl but probably it counted as begging.Gansey would not shut up. They were here, now, in this situation, because of Gansey’s inability to self-restrain from crazy actions and words. He hummed in clear disregard of whatever Ronan had to say. “I won’t, it’s all true.”





	Lock up your daughters (and your sons)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luz/gifts).



> In other words, this is the summertime-messing-around Ronsey that no one asked for but that I'm going to deliver to you because of obvious reasons.
> 
> This fic has been in preparation for ages, I only managed to finished last night and at the end the posting time agrees pretty well with the setting time, so we can pretend it was all planned.
> 
> On the other hand, I meant for this to be a graduation gift for Luz, and I know I'm super late but I hope she will enjoyed it nonetheless.  
> For those of you that might not know, Luz is my beta for The Grip of It, the only women in the world capable of taking a deep breath and roll with it when I present her with 53 pages of work. If this wasn't enough, she's kind and brilliant and creative and deserves everything the world has to offer.  
> I love her to pieces and please spare her a kind thought yourself if you're reading this ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤
> 
> Another mandatory thanks goes to Interropunct, that betaed this fic and weeded some of my general fumbling with words out! They are always amazing, but it's worth repeating it.
> 
> And now, off with the fic, in which pining and teenaged inappropriateness mix explosively with General Human Mess Dick Gansey III. The DubCon tag is only there because of the involvement of alcohol, breathe easy.

  
  


The edge of the wooden bed frame was sharper than Ronan would have thought, piercing at the soft skin at the back of his head when he bucked back against it. The contrast with the slide of Gansey’s tongue against his collarbone was incongruent — perfect, maddening. 

The strong grip on the front of his t-shirt yanked him forward once again, widening the hem enough for Gansey to nose down further and close his mouth on the skin of Ronan’s chest. In the suffocating quality of the summer air in Virginia, nothing was as scorching as Gansey sucking over Ronan’s wild, drumming heart.

“Uh...nhgh…” Ronan circled Gansey’s wrist with one hand, as helpless as the sounds escaping from between his clenched teeth. This is how he sounded to himself at night — burrowed under the covers with one hand inside his pants — and it had no place in a fully lit room, with _another person_.

And yet.

Gansey echoed him with a deeply pleased sound against his skin and Ronan could do nothing but stare at the far wall of his own room, a bit blurry in quality and weird in the artificial light. He stroked along the tendons of Gansey’s forearm, overwhelmed by their closeness and by all the sensations twisting in his gut.

He knew his dreams, the shameful, frenzied, hidden ones. In his dreams, Gansey and he would quarrel and tease each other on the riverside. They would engage in boyish scuffles — like brothers — and then roll on the grass, mouth over mouth and hands in unspeakable places — like lovers.

This was not a dream.

Gansey huffed against Ronan’s chest and then lifted his head, struggling with Ronan’s shirt in a different, more urgent way.

“Take this off, Ronan, give me more skin,” he demanded, deep hazel eyes liquid and unfocused raising up to meet Ronan’s. “Come on, arms up.”

If there was a defining trait for Gansey’s own existence, it was his persuasiveness. A leader born and bred, he would inspire ideas and lead people, but the trick always seemed to hide in the lack of _direct_ command. In the span of the last thirty minutes, however, Ronan had been pushed, commanded, _commandeered_ in more ways that he had ever thought possible. 

He lifted his arms. Gansey made his shirt fly halfway across the room. 

“Oh, your skin is so white” Gansey murmured, bending down to touch Ronan’s chest with his lips again. 

Ronan wanted to scream. “Yeah, Irish genes...all that shit,” he said instead between two halted breath, “and I don’t spend my days rowing.”

“You shouldn’t! Ever! You would _burn_!” Gansey countered, getting more outraged over the track of whatever train of thought he was engrossed in now, “You’re so smooth, it would be such a _waste_.”

The air in the room was torrid, even in the late night, and yet Ronan felt like shivering, the only points of warmth dotted around on his skin along the same pattern of Gansey’s mouth. “Shut up,” he murmured, averting his gaze and refusing to acknowledge the way Gansey was tracking the faint path of body hair down his navel. 

“So muscled, also, everything flexes when you squirm. Marvelous.” Gansey insisted in his ramble.

“ _Gansey_ , shut _up_.” Ronan wanted to snarl but probably it counted as begging.

Gansey would not shut up. They were here, now, in this situation, because of Gansey’s inability to self-restrain from crazy actions and words. He hummed in clear disregard of whatever Ronan had to say. “I won’t, it’s all true.”

Maybe Ronan could just scream after all. 

Gansey’s hands scrambled along Ronan’s thighs, creasing the fabric of his sweatpants up, opening his legs further apart to kneel between them. The movement was accompanied by a distracted clinking of empty glasses on the hard floor, tilting sideways and rolling in the distance after successfully reminding Ronan how they got here.

It was just supposed to be a celebration.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The Barns had welcomed Gansey with open arms, as usual. Mum and Dad had gone off on one of their crazy dates, shortly followed by Declan, who needed to attend one of the many groups of people that couldn’t thrive without him. They had stuffed their faces with pizza, in the company of Matthew, before the food combined with a sleepless night playing videogames had the best of the youngest Lynch.

At that point, Ronan was feeling mischievous and stealing a bottle of single malt from his father’s liquor cabinet had seemed like the perfect culmination for the evening. 

Holed up in Ronan’s room, they had cheered to the summer vacation starting, to final signatures on the paperwork for Monmouth Manufacturing, to the Pig not breaking down for a whole week.  
They had bottomed up for Welsh Kings and mad quests that Ronan had joined without questioning or skepticism.

Having grown up in an overly-proud Irish-descendant household, Ronan had found himself more euphoric on their meaningful stares, shared plans, and sense of friendship, than on the whiskey itself. He had not remotely considered that celebrations among Ganseys involved champagne and wine, velvet on the tongue instead of fire down the throat. 

He should have noticed that Gansey was getting drunk — like _reckless_ -drunk — but they had been in a shared state of _happy_ -drunkenness together for a bit, so he hadn’t.

One way or another, he was forced to notice when Gansey went silent for a bit, only to interrupt Ronan — whose story about the Raven Day last year was admittedly incoherent — with a curious hand running up from his nape to fiddle with his hair. 

“Your hair is so soft,” Gansey had said, curling a dark lock around his fingers and pulling. When Ronan had just stared at him, silent in drunken stupor and more, he had carried on with, “And your eyes are really blue. It’s a wonderful combination, they really stand out.”

Ronan had stuttered a widely insufficient, “What are you saying?”, heat raising on his cheeks like a swooning girl, _damn_. 

“The truth. It's bad form not to share a compliment when you have one to provide,” Gansey had stated, half-distractedly, staring at his own hand combing back and forth through Ronan’s hair — intense, possessive.

Ronan had swallowed against embarrassment and guilt — overwhelmed by the touches, greedy to receive some more if he could. “If that’s a quote from your mother I don’t think it’s what she mea…” 

Whatever Mrs. Gansey’s etiquette lessons had ever been about, Ronan never got to elaborate on them. He had missed the cue of Gansey’s painstaking — hungry — stare, when it followed the motion of his swallowing, and was left with nothing else to do but choking on his own tongue when a pair of lips had latched on Ronan’s neck. 

The ground had swayed under him, unsteady like his own heart.

Gansey had scrambled even closed to Ronan, tracing the tendon of his neck open-mouthed, unrestrained. Ronan had grabbed his arms but could not push him away, not while his own fingers were _curling_ against the naked skin of Gansey’s biceps, betraying how ecstatic this whole ordeal felt. 

Time had stretched, as if Gansey had dragged Ronan underwater and they were floating there, suspended. Every once in awhile, a stream of praises would start, leaving Gansey’s mouth before the thought itself was completed — “ _So warm_ ”, and “ _Smell good_ ”, and “ _I can hear your pulse under my tongue_ ”.

At some indefinite point, everything on the right side of Ronan’s neck had felt over sensitive and electrified and every new contact had made him flinch minutely.  
Gansey had tightened the grip on his hair and swiftly directed Ronan to tilt his head and offer up the other side — “ _There you go, so good for me_ ”. The white ceiling had swum in spots before Ronan’s eyes.

“Oh, can I do this some more?” Gansey had pleaded. “Can I do this?” he had added, stumbling on a missed step too late down the line, and seemingly by accident. 

Ronan had laughed, in spite a strong part of his brain had pleaded to just moan and be done with it. “For fuck’s sake. Yes. Yes, but shut up.”

Gansey had _beamed_ , like a kid in a candy shop, and had dived back in without mercy.

He had not, after all, shut up.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Come here, come on,” Gansey urged, unclear and insistent for the hundredth time that night. Ronan had no idea what exactly this demand was about, now, but couldn’t be bother to ask. Gansey would surely take what he wanted soon enough. 

The searching grip on his sweatpants slid all the way to the bent curve of his knees and Ronan found himself dragged forward with a sharp tug. His shoulders pressed against the bed frame, lower than before, and Gansey’s thighs were there to welcome his hips.  
Snug tightly against him, Gansey circled the curve of his back with one arm and bent to kiss Ronan’s stomach.

Ronan might not be screaming but all his nerve endings definitely were, by now.

“Gansey, _fuck_ ,” he cursed him. A hard suction in the dip between his abs was all that came in reply, and Ronan’s mouth got the best of him. “A-ah...ah…”

“Yes,” Gansey encouraged him, tongue chasing every helpless jump of Ronan’s stomach under his mouth, crossing around the trail of hair leading to his crotch. “ _Yes_.”

Under his clothes, Ronan’s dick was tense and _weeping_ in a way Ronan himself was too dignified to let the rest of himself do. He dragged his fingers on the wooden floor, nails trailing along the corner of two planks while his right leg twitched at Gansey’s side. Presented with the messy locks of Gansey’s hair, his flushed cheeks and the smudgy redness of his wet lips, Ronan felt drunk on something more than whiskey. 

There was something profoundly disorienting in being catapulted from an innocuous, half-spoken inclination — _I like men, I just do_ — to getting more than he would ever ask for — _straddling Gansey’s thighs, being touched, knowing what his tongue feels like_. It made greed too easy, it unleashed fantasies that should be left unconceived. Gansey was there, though — perfect white teeth outlining the bumps of his abs, breath uneven and humid on his skin — and his treacherous mind flashed him visions of those lips, that heat, engulfing his cock. 

It was too much, it was _blasphemous_.

His body arched against his will, legs crossing behind Gansey’s back. “I c...I can’t, shit, _I can’t_...Please,” Ronan found himself begging, voice shaking and arms flailing up, to circle Gansey’s shoulders and desperately dragging him back up from his stomach. 

Gansey reluctantly complied, still keeping his tongue flat on Ronan’s skin all the way upwards. 

“What do you mean? You’re _spectacular_ ,” Gansey pressed him flush against his chest, and Ronan groaned at both the pressure of Gansey’s stomach on his dick and at the slow, leisured lick along the shell of his ear. “Oh, you’re hard. Is it for me?” Gansey added, almost dumbfounded by the knowledge, nosing around the soft spot by the side of Ronan’s jaw.

Ronan bucked in Gansey’s arms — in his lap, Jesus Christ, he’s _on his lap_ — and clawed uselessly at pea-green polo shirt that Gansey had deemed appropriate to wear today. “What the fuck do you think, I’m covered in your spit!” 

It was supposed to be a diversion, to elicit some embarrassment and relieve Ronan of the unbearable weight of the truth, but Gansey fucked that right up by moaning like he had just been slapped. He had no right to snap, but he still moved like a tense spring. Ronan got to experience what the rowing machine at Aglionby must feel every morning when Gansey pushed him backwards, fingers digging in his thighs, and ground against him.

Two thin layers of fabric were the only barrier between Ronan and Dick Gansey’s _fucking_ erection. 

Few things would sound better than feeling that rocking directly on his skin, but it would require Ronan to dislodge them from their current position. He might never get it, this, again, so he just grasped on Gansey’s broad shoulders desperately, holding on through the rolls. 

The friction of the fabric in the crack of his ass was _maddening_ , it made him tremble enough to even forget the sharp pressure of the bed frame cutting through the back of his neck. Gansey was subtly adjusting their position while cresting along his drunk desire, to the point Ronan almost believed he could feel every centimeter of Gansey’s hard cock exactly in the crack between his cheeks. The presence of several layers of fabric didn’t matter — _couldn’t_ matter — and Ronan found himself to be more than pliant to the situation, legs crossing behind Gansey’s back and undulating back and forth every time Gansey missed a beat.

“Just...ah...like this,” Gansey’s voice was fractured, and he vented it out with licking along Ronan’s ear. That uneven breathing seared itself in more than Ronan’s eardrum. “You’re so good. I want you naked. I will...after this…”

“Yes, yeah.” 

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the little spasming of his legs that send additional tension along his cock, but Ronan wanted nothing more than to _comply_ — maybe, if he were lucky, get _praised_ for it. His vision swayed again and he gave in to the temptation of kissing Gansey’s neck in return.

“Oooh, yes, please,” Gansey cooed, always curteous — even while slamming Ronan with an increasing fractured rhythm against his bed frame, just to dry hump him into the wall. He was also nothing but a kind sovereign, and he sneaked one hand between them, pressing it squarely against Ronan’s dick.

After all the endurance, a little screamed profanity hitched from Ronan’s throat, landing squarely on Gansey’s skin.

“Are you close?” Gansey enquired, nipping at Ronan’s naked shoulder — lightly at first, but getting more insistent. “Are you coming?”

In the shivering that seized him, building up and then even higher, Ronan had no strength to tell Gansey to shut up, once again. He could only rock between Gansey’s hand — toying with the hardest erection he has ever got in his life — and Gansey’s lap, thoughts dissolving into a frenzied lust.

“Gansey,” Ronan’s fingers clawed on the outrageous polo shirt. “Gansey...Gansey... _Ah_!”

The world spun, white and black, spotty and translucent, in synch with the pulsing of his dick. Ronan came in his pants and on Gansey’s lap, held with a possession he had never even dreamed to desire before. 

When his vision cleared, just a tiny bit, the rocking stopped, but Gansey was still there — grinding and moaning, moaning and grinding — slowing down through shudders so deep they looked like a seizure. 

Coming against Ronan. Coming because of Ronan.

Gansey lifted his head, at the end, spit blurring the redness from his mouth along his beautiful, disheveled face. He dropped his forehead against Ronan’s and laughed a wild laugh while his trembles winded down.

He was on fire, more than Ronan’s has ever seen him.

Sweaty, hair messy, breath heavy and eyes glossy, he was everything Ronan could possibly want.

Gansey’s head wobbled, left to right and then back, and Ronan found himself increasingly focused on their short distance, on how close Gansey’s breath was to his face.

He wanted a kiss — Ronan figured, suddenly. He wanted the only kiss that Gansey hadn’t given him throughout this crazy evening. He wanted to be kissed and see what waste this final contact would laid on his twitching body and on his drunken brain.

He was just about to move and _get this_ for himself, when Gansey’s head swung to the side and dropped on Ronan’s shoulder. He snuggled closer in the crook of Ronan’s neck and then sighed — deep, deeper.

With the loosening grip on his hips, Ronan found himself sitting on the floor, sodden and with an equally unpresentable Gansey sleeping drunkenly against him.

“Shit, fuck, Christ.”

Swearing didn’t resolve the situation, but Ronan kept at it for a bit nonetheless.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Gansey woke up the morning after with a killer hangover and a brutal confusion that seemed to have engulfed the whole night. Ronan complimented himself on having cleaned up the mess and hidden as much proof of the mischief as he possibly could. 

He was left alone to remember it, but it didn’t really matter. He insisted so with himself, over and over, and kept the common sense of not getting drunk in Gansey’s vicinity — even when getting drunk became a relevant part of his weeks.

The residual longing merged itself with the rest of the anger and uneasiness. 

Ronan would have to wait almost a year more to get kissed.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading!
> 
> Kudos, comments, messages on my [Tumblr](http://seekthemist.tumblr.com) and incoherent notes sent via pigeon are always very much appreciated!
> 
> Also, could this work possibly have a Ronan/Gansey/Adam sequel? Hell yeah, I would personally fancy a return of "Local Posh Fucker Gets A Bit Too Wasted and Causes Mayhems" ❤


End file.
